Brother, Rider
by Shestrun
Summary: The story of the fall of the Empire, told through the eyes of the Red Rider.
1. Fighting, Searching

I do not own the Inheritance Cycle. I don't even own any of the books- I get the CDs from the library.

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Blood.

Metal, bone, terror.

More blood.

Screaming, yelling, footsteps.

Blood _again_?

This was getting old.

Murtagh stabbed yet _another_ Urgal through the chest, wrenched his sword out, and whirled around, decapitating a horned head from the one that had been sneaking up on him.

It occurred to him that he was surrounded by Urgals.

_Okay, Eragon. I got you out of one of these; now it's your turn. _

Actually, he wouldn't have been picky. _Any_ sort of rescue would have been preferable to being slowly hacked to pieces by-

A shudder seemed to pass through the Urgals.

Murtagh flinched and somehow it seemed as if a spell was broken. One of the Urgals chopped at another with an axe. A nearby apparent commander tried to restore order, but to no avail.

Black clouds were shooting across Farthen Dur, but Murtagh paid them little heed.

Some sort of inner sixth sense told him to find Eragon.

Or maybe it was just logic. Eragon always managed to find trouble.

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The corridors of Tronjheim were utterly deserted. There was no sign of whatever could have blasted the door open.

Murtagh wasn't convinced. _Something's wrong. I can tell. _

Then he saw them.

Scattered all around the center of Tronjheim were what he slowly came to realize were fragments of the impressive jewel that had capped the city-mountain's central chamber. He walked between two jagged and formidable chunks and came across Arya.

The raven-haired elf was clearly unconscious. Murtagh first thought that she lay on one of the chunks of Isidar Mithrim, but as he ran towards her, he realized that she was in Saphira's saddle. The blue dragon was, if that was possible, less conscious than the elf on her back. _But where is that idiot friend of mine? _

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Author's Note: I'm starting this one off before I go to bed. There will be more.

Much more.

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On the fourth day of Christmas, the four calling birds switched to unlimited texting.


	2. Finding, Saving

Still not mine.

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He was seeing red.

Literally and figuratively.

The star sapphire (he never could understand how it was a sapphire when it was red, not blue) had shattered into so many fragments that Murtagh easily got lost dodging between them. Worse, their edges were so sharp that he had to make sure not to touch them, or he could easily end up covered in-

Well, he was already covered in blood, dirt and various injuries. That didn't mean he wanted any more.

_Finally_, he found Eragon. He swore flamboyantly.

The young Rider lay curled up on his side, arms protectively shielding his head. His clothing and armor were even more torn and bloodied than Murtagh's.

Next to Eragon was a small pile of clothing and a bloodied sword. Murtagh vaguely noticed that they were the same ones that Durza had possessed when he and Eragon had fought before.

_Wait a minute. Did that moron friend of mine actually kill a Shade? _

From what he'd heard, that would explain Eragon's current state of unconsciousness.

But there was something else.

Murtagh's mind tried to reject what he saw, but there was no denying it.

The Shade had torn open Eragon's back, even as Murtagh's had been so long ago. Blood spilled from the wound across Tronjheim's marble floor, dark red on the white.

Murtagh knelt next to Eragon and removed his friend's mail shirt and tunic, which was not very difficult due to the fact that they had been badly torn by the sword blow.

The sight of the horrific wound immobilized Murtagh for several moments, until the buckle-down-and-survive part of his brain took over. He yanked off his mail shirt and tunic and reached the shirt underneath, which was relatively intact, and draped it across Eragon's back, staunching the blood flow somewhat.

It wouldn't last long, though. Murtagh knew that someone who knew far more about healing than he would have to help Eragon. And he had no idea what had happened to Saphira and Arya…

"Help!"

His voice rang out through the marble city-mountain, echoing eerily.

The blood started to seep through his shirt.

"Help! _HELP!" _

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Author's note: On the fifth day of Christmas, the five golden rings became four thanks to a hobbit, a wizard, and a volcano.


	3. Melancholy, ruminations

I do not own this.

And yes, I will do my best to make the chapters longer.

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Murtagh sat against a wall, arms around his knees. Arya paced back and forth in front of him, anxious.

It had been a long time since the battle, but he had no idea exactly how long. He hated life underground, perpetually in the dark twilight.

Normally, Murtagh enjoyed the dark, peaceful as it often was; no one wanted to start a battle when they were asleep. But this?

This was just excessive.

There was no predictability to what everyone else would be doing. Even though there was some schedule to people getting up, eating, cleaning up the battle, training for new ones, it was all too confusing. He hated it.

He also hated the Shade. Durza. Sometimes he wished the Shade was still alive, so Murtagh could put him through exactly what Eragon was dealing with.

In the days since the battle, the young Rider had been sleeping under the care of that strange herbalist, Angela. Murtagh wasn't sure what he quite thought of her. She was so eccentric, so unusual, so silly, yet deadly…

Speak of the devil, she walked out of the sickroom and announced in a bright, cheery voice that Eragon had awoken and would be able to receive visitors.

Murtagh got up and promptly dropped back down, ducking as Saphira darted down the hall, or rather moved, because a six-month-old dragon couldn't really dart at all, much less in a cramped hallway.

According to Arya, she could now breathe fire. That thought caused some trepidation as to the fate of the door and anything else that got between Saphira and her Rider.

He needn't have worried. Angela had opened the door wide enough for Saphira to put her head and neck through so she could see Eragon. There was even enough room for Arya and Murtagh to squeeze through and into the room.

Murtagh's head throbbed as he stood up. The wound that one of the Urgals had dealt him the previous day while he was trying to exterminate them had been bandaged properly, and should heal soon, but it still hurt.

To tell the truth, he was glad for the excuse to avoid the fighting. He wanted to see his friend. Eragon could get out of a lot of trouble, true, but he managed to fall into more trouble than Murtagh had originally thought possible.

Further ruminations were cut short as Eragon greeted him. He seemed reasonably recovered, but the memory of the horrible wound on his back gave Murtagh pause. _Either he doesn't know, or he's just masquerading as his normal cheery self. Or both. _

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Author's note: I know it's not as good as it could/should be, but I'm trying to work under timed conditions, and it's not easy. I will almost certainly go back over these and improve them. Thank you for your patience and reviews.

On the sixth day of Christmas, the six geese-a-laying were hired by Willy Wonka to help him punish greedy kids.


	4. Conversation and

I do not own this… I am so sick and tired of disclaimers…

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_Shin, shin, shin, shin thud- _

Murtagh swore and hopped on his un-landed on foot. He'd been sharpening his sword after the latest skirmish but had been distracted by shouting and dropped the whetstone on his foot. The stone lay on the bloodstained ground now. _Yeah, just sit there and look all innocent. You're evil, you know that? _

He plucked the stone from the dirt, wiped it on his shirt, and tucked it into his pocket before going to see what the shouting was all about.

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"Was I not clear on this? You were to pack your things, get out of Trondjheim and Farthen Dur, and hide with the rest of the women and children. I made this quite clear to you."

Murtagh bit back a smile as he watched Ajihad chastise Nasuada, sputtering vehemently. The fiery-tempered, beautiful girl had, as he had rather expected, insisted on taking part in the fighting.

He was not at all surprised. It was unreasonable to expect any of the women who had given up their lives to join the Varden to abandon it to Urgals, but Nasuada had built her entire existence around promoting its welfare. Of course she would defend it.

As for Ajihad's protestations that Nasuada was too young, she was about Murtagh's age, and both of them were considerably older than not only Eragon, who was also currently watching father and daughter argue, but also a sizeable portion of the Varden's army. It was quite plain to Murtagh that Ajihad was just being a paranoid father.

_Well, that's one difference between me and her. She still has a father- heck, she _ever_ had a father who rated the term. Even if he's overprotective. _

Eragon caught Murtagh's eye and smirked for a split second. Murtagh winked back. The young Rider had more or less recovered, and was supposed to be conferring with Ajihad. However, the leader of the Varden was… busy at the moment.

Murtagh wasn't quite sure what he thought of Eragon. Positive thoughts, on the whole. The two of them were so similar that it would have been impossible for either of them to dislike much of the other without automatically applying the same emotion to himself.

But Eragon was, in Murtagh's opinion, rather naïve. Sheltered. Relying mostly on luck and Saphira.

Ajihad finally finished upbraiding Nasuada and turned to Eragon. Leader and Rider walked away for privacy while they talked.

That left Murtagh and Nasuada off by themselves. Murtagh felt rather awkward around her. Despite what Eragon seemed to think when enquiring about why exactly Murtagh didn't want to go to the Varden, Murtagh had never really paid that much attention to women. He was a little busy focusing on survival to go down that road.

At least that's what he told himself.

If he had been honest with himself, he didn't want to pass on his curse to anyone else. The whole world hated him just because he was Morzan's son- what would they do to anyone he fell in love with, or any children they had? Not to mention it was entirely possible that he would treat them like Morzan had treated him and his mother…

His ruminations were cut short when Nasuada freed him from his own mind by simply smiling at him and greeting him politely. He automatically switched to conversation mode. It was simple, really. Most conversations followed a predictable pattern.

He returned her greeting, avoiding commenting on the familial exchange he had just been privy to. They moved on to polite inquiries as to each other's welfare, to which the other replied with a phrase indicating a vaguely positive state of being. Typical.

The conversation became somewhat more interesting when Nasuada volunteered a small amount of information about Ajihad's plans, which he volunteered to join. He complimented her on her bravery in joining the battle, but refrained from elaborating since Ajihad was returning.

A few polite orders from the Varden's leader dispersed the group, but Nasuada followed him. Curious, he turned to her.

"Nasuada? Is there something I ca-"

She cut him off by pressing her lips to his.

Startled, he waited a moment before leaning into the kiss, enjoying it for a moment.

Then Nasuada broke it off and took off without a backward glance.

Murtagh wandered back to his sleeping chamber, smiling.

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On the tenth day of Christmas, the ten lords-a-leaping tripped and crashed in a most unlordly manner.

I know, kind of lame, but it's the best I can do. I don't have a lot to work with. Ten lords? Come on. Whoever wrote that stupid song could have come up with something a little more creative…


	5. Introspection, Dinner, and Threats

Not mine…

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At the dining hall that "night", Murtagh chose to sit next to Eragon. His friend seemed tired and sore; Murtagh realized that the scar Durza had given him must still be troubling him.

_For once, I'm luckier than you, kid. _

Once he'd recovered from his father's murder attempt, the only repercussions that had lasted had been mental: he'd become frightened most of the time, of harm, of danger, of attachment, of weakness…

And he'd managed to decide that no one could ever possibly care about him, not once they knew who he was, what he looked like, what baggage he carried.

Morbid thoughts for a three-year-old, but then again he was still alive, so he must be doing something right, right?

Except Eragon.

On some level, he hadn't thought it was even possible for him to care about someone; the few times he'd broken that rule, he'd only gotten hurt again- his mother, Selena, his friend, protector, confidante, and mentor, Tornac…

But then Eragon had happened to his controlled life.

He had had utterly no intention of getting attached to the pathetic pipsqueak when he'd encountered him and Brom held prisoner by the Ra'zac. He'd just meant to do the right thing.

Of course, that plan had gone out the proverbial window once he realized how utterly helpless his brother was-

_Idiot. He's your friend. You're not related to him. _

Murtagh chuckled at his subconscious' chastisement. It was an odd thought, that Eragon was his brother, but perhaps not entirely unwarranted. He always had to play protector and guardian to his younger friend.

But there was more than that.

Murtagh had always wanted a brother, even after his parents had died and any siblings were as such out of the realm of possibility. Even though he didn't really want anyone else to have to deal with Morzan as a father; he'd never managed to shake off his father's shadow.

Then he glanced over at the subject of his introspection.

Eragon had stuffed a rather large piece of bread into his mouth and was trying to chew enough of it to fit the rest in. Murtagh couldn't help but smirk to himself at the sight.

"Waishovunn?"

Murtagh snorted. "What?" _Don't talk with your mouth full; it makes you look like a juvenile moron- okay, not much of a stretch there. _

Eragon swallowed rapidly several times. "What's so funny?"

"Ach, nothing. You just look kind of funny when you have an entire loaf of bread in your mouth."

Eragon rolled his eyes at his friend. "Quit exaggerating, or we'll see what _you_ look like with an entire loaf of bread stuffed down your throat. No chewing."

"You seriously can't come up with a better threat than that?"

"Or we could see what _Saphira_ looks like with an entire _you_ stuffed down her throat…"

"Shut up and eat your food."

"I'm not sure that's really within the realm of possible actions…"

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On the twelfth day of Christmas, the twelve drummers drumming got the police called on them for excessive noise by eleven pipers piping, ten lords-a-leaping, nine ladies dancing, eight maids-a-milking, seven swans-a-swimming, six geese-a-laying, five golden rings, four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree.

Happy Twelfth night.


	6. Hating the Twins

Not mine.

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Breathe.

In. Out.

Cold, wet. Sit up -pain- forget that. Hard ground.

Breathe again.

It occurred to him that he was awake.

But how was that possible? He didn't remember going to bed…

His head hurt. That… made sense, right? considering…

His wrists too. But why…?

Heavy warmth on top of him. Ah, yes. Blanket.

Safe and warm.

Right?

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When Murtagh woke up again, his thinking was somewhat clearer. It occurred to him that he must have been drugged.

It occurred to him that that was a bad thing.

Furthermore, he realized that he had been fighting again. He remembered going into those _awful_ tunnels with Ajihad and the Twins-

Then the twins had attacked him and Ajihad.

Murtagh bolted upright, ignoring the throbbing in his head.

Face-to-face with both Twins was, like dead, wounded or captured, something he would rather not be, if it were all the same to… whoever the heck decided those things. He automatically decided to focus on the fire -burning, warm, _red, nice color, really_-

Unfortunately, ignoring a problem never solved it.

Those -he tried to find a word bad enough for them, and came up empty- _the Twins_ smiled evilly at him. Actually, he had no idea if their expression bespoke evil -he was never very good at determining that sort of thing- but it seemed more than likely, and they _were_ smiling…

"It is verrry nice of you to join us, Murtagh, son of Morzan."

He sounded almost like he was purring, an impression which was furthered by the self-satisfied expressions on his and his doppelganger's faces.

Murtagh tried to respond, but realized that they'd gagged him. It was probably just as well. What air he was managing to inhale was foul enough without him telling the Twins exactly what he thought of them.

The Twin continued. "King Galbatorix will be very glad to see you, Murtagh. He was most… disspleased when you deserted him."

Murtagh decided to take the opportunity to practice his non-verbal communication. It apparently worked, because the Twins smiled evilly at him.

"Ooh, he's angry. I'm so… scared."

One of the Twins yanked the gag off Murtagh's mouth and shoved a rag in his face. He caught a strange, unidentifiable scent before he was out like a dark.

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Author's note: Okay, I have no idea if they have chloroform in Alagaesia, but cut me a little slack?


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